Читать книгу Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 71

Chapter Nineteen

So they made their way north, not hurrying, pretending to each other that the journey would not end.

And if they went a few miles afield to see a cathedral or enjoy a market day, what was the harm? Anne refused to dwell on it. Refused to think of anything beyond the day. And the night.

And if she had a child? She would not think of that, either. She would be safely locked away, the babe cared for in the convent, and no one beyond those walls would ever know.

With no one to stitch for, her hands were empty, so in the evenings Nicholas taught her to juggle. Or tried to. She learned to toss two balls, and the other guests at the inn applauded the night she finally succeeded with three.

And afterwards they went up the stairs together, letting the others think they were married.

Eustace and Agatha kept their secret.

* * *

‘We will be in Lincoln tomorrow,’ Nicholas said, late one night a week later, as they lay together, sated and warm.

She snuggled closer. ‘Beyond the scent of the tannery, I hope.’ She had not seen it, but the stench had hovered in the air most of the day.

Beside her, he went still and quiet. ‘Yes. Well beyond.’

She nodded and drifted toward sleep. Then, something he had said, long ago, tickled her memory. ‘Is your home near? Would you show me?’ He had no family left, she remembered that, so there would be no awkward explanations to make.

She rolled on to her back and tapped his nose with her finger. ‘I’d like to picture you there as a little boy.’ She giggled. ‘Learning to juggle. Show me where you learned to juggle.’

Abruptly, he turned away and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Why would you want to see that?’

‘Because I care about you.’ She trailed her fingers down his bare back.

He moved again, standing, out of reach of her hand. ‘Because you are trying to trap me.’

‘Trap you?’ She shook her head, thinking her sleep-fogged brain must be confused. ‘How... Why... What...?’

Nicholas was pacing now, as if he wanted to escape the room. ‘Yes. Trap me, force me into marriage.’

Something cold, as if she were frozen, trickled under Anne’s skin. ‘How can you think—?’

‘Isn’t that what you want? You would be saved from the convent and I’d be weighed down with a wife.’

She could not speak, then, for the pain that gripped her.

Weighed down. Cannot move.

And if she had ever, in the moments before sleep, dreamed of tomorrows with Nicholas, she had known it was impossible. For her, but most of all for him. How could he accuse her when she had tried so hard?

She lashed out, speaking no more sense than he. ‘You were the one who insisted that you come with me.’ A worse thought now. ‘Did you do it only because you could take what you wanted? No one would know or care what happened to me, would they?’

And everything she had cherished seemed about to turn to ash and bitter words.

* * *

Nicholas saw Anne’s stricken face, suddenly sharp and clear, and it brought him back to himself. What had happened? One moment he had been holding her tight, grateful that more than half the journey still lay before them, wishing he never had to leave her. The next—

The next he was a child again, wanting to escape a home that did not want him, resenting a father who had let a woman deceive him.

Trapped. It was his stepmother he spoke of. He had been running from his father’s fate all these years and not realised it until now.

He knelt by the bed and raised a hand to Anne’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

She swatted it away. ‘Spare me your apologies.’

He grabbed her hands back. ‘Please. Let me tell you.’

Silent, she glared at him, trying to hide the hurt behind a defiant stare. Finally, she spoke, slowly, each word with a weight of its own. ‘I...don’t...care.’

But he would not let her go. He could see what held her back, but something had weighed him down, too. Something she could not see.

He began to speak, as if she had said nothing, keeping her hands in his so she could not cover her ears. ‘My father was a tanner.’

There, the surprise on her face. ‘And you, a knight?’

How far he had come. Almost far enough to forget the stench of the pits where the skin was separated from the fat and flesh. It had taken him years to run far enough away to clear that smell from his nostrils.

But there was more to tell. ‘My mother died when I was a babe. I barely remember her.’

Sympathy softened her face. Her mother must have been her whole world. He envied her that.

Then, the flicker of feeling was gone. ‘You told me this before,’ she said. ‘Or were you too drunk to remember that?’

‘I told you, but I did not tell you all.’

There was something he could not read in her expression, but she remained silent and waited for him to continue.

‘And then, my father, instead of being sensible and marrying a woman with a dower, fell in love with a woman near half his age. She led him on—’ the words bitter even to this day ‘—pretending to be a shy and chaste maiden, and he let lust rule him. He pressured her parents to allow them to wed quickly. And five months after they were wed, I had a younger brother.’

And that quickly, his father’s dreams had died. Gone was the extra time to perfect his skill with the bow so that he could escape from the tannery pits to glory in war.

‘What happened to you?’ Her question was soft.

‘The monks at the priory taught me some Latin, but I did not want to be a monk. I wanted to see the world. But there was no escape for me either and I...’ He was ashamed, even now, to remember. ‘I screamed and sulked and kicked and cried and I suspect they were relieved when I ran away.’

He paused. Always astonishing, to think of that journey. From a small boy trapped in the tanning pits to a foot soldier knighted on the field of battle by the Prince himself. Yes, a man could make of himself what he would, as long as he was able-bodied.

And if not...

‘And so you will never be trapped yourself.’ Her words were rich with understanding.

He wanted to nod, but his head would not move, as if she had trapped him already.

‘And you won’t,’ she said. ‘Not by me. I only wanted...something to remember. Nothing has changed. We have only this journey. After that, you will be as free as you were before.’

He nodded, but he was not certain she was right.

But she did not ask again to see his home and he did not take her.

* * *

And so the days of the journey rolled by and Anne counted them, finally knowing there were fewer before than behind. When they reached Durham, she could scarcely bear to look at the Cathedral, knowing it would be the last.

Three more days, three more nights until they arrived at Holystone. Would God strike her dead when she crossed the threshold? What was the punishment for such a lie as she had lived? Lady Joan had paid nothing for it, so perhaps it was all for Anne to bear.

Was it a bigger sin than sleeping with Nicholas?

No matter. If death came, she would be content, except that she had never seen Compostela. Or Chartres. Or Rome.

Obviously, God had never intended that she would.

The nights had become more important than the days, but instead of spending that night in Durham making love until dawn, they lay awake, holding each other, as if staying awake might hold back the dawn.

She asked him about his life and listened to the tale of a runaway boy who had become a trusted member of the Prince’s retinue.

‘And you?’ he asked that night. ‘You have listened to me for days and told me nothing of your life.’

‘My life has been Lady Joan’s life.’ Not her own. Never her own.

Nicholas leaned on his elbow and raised an eyebrow. ‘Lady Joan has had a very interesting life.’

Exactly what she did not want to explore.

If he discovered the truth, he would know she was not a beloved confidante, but only a twisted, damaged liar who had only been kept safe because of the havoc she could wreak.

No. That, she could not let him see. For if he knew who she really was and how she had lied, this fragile thing between them would be gone. And although she had no hope that it would go beyond these days, this brief joy, of a man truly looking into her eyes, the joy of having, even for a moment, a gentle touch, a kiss, a connection that went deeper...ah, that was worth it all. Worth continuing the lie...

She shrugged. ‘There is nothing to tell.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how you learned to do needlework.’

Remembrance joined relief. ‘I finally had something I could do.’ Something that did not need her to be whole. She had missed it during these days of travel. Perhaps she could stitch altar clothes for the nuns. ‘It was Salisbury’s mother who taught me.’

‘His mother?’

She nodded. ‘It was shortly after he and Joan were wed. We lived all together then. His father died and I think teaching me gave his mother something to do.’

She had not thought of that in years. Lady Joan’s mother had forced the marriage despite her daughter’s objections. Circumstances were strained. Salisbury, sixteen and not yet knighted, was suddenly the Earl, struggling to prove himself equal to the task of the title, as well as of being a husband. Meanwhile, his mother grieved over his father and showed Anne how to make her stitches smooth and even.

‘So Salisbury was managing all the lands by himself at sixteen?’

‘Oh, no. Thomas Holland helped.’

As soon as she said his name, the world become still. A few words. A few seconds. Everything could change. Life could end, just that fast.

‘What do you mean?’ Nicholas asked.

She could not take the words back, so she must pretend they meant nothing. ‘He was the Earl’s steward.’ This was a fact easily known and discovered, and yet why would anyone even think to ask it? Certainly Nicholas hadn’t. Not until now.

She rushed on. ‘Holland was not always an Earl. It was through Joan that he received the title.’ Did she sound too bright? Too careless? ‘He was a squire in the first Earl’s retinue. That was why he was in Flanders when he married Joan.’

‘But you’re not talking about the old Earl now, are you?’

She shook her head.

‘When was this? That he worked for his wife’s husband?’

How bald it sounded, when he said it. ‘I was about eight.’

Nicholas blinked. ‘Why would Holland work for a man who had taken his wife? A wife he was trying to claim.’

Could she lie again? Could she tell him she did not remember? Even he would not believe that.

She shrugged. ‘Children do not notice such things.’

Even in that, she lied. Children noticed exactly those things. As a child, she had known that the way Lady Joan and the steward had shared touches was meant for a man and his wife.

And why.

* * *

Nicholas sat up in the bed and shook his head, certain he had misunderstood. He did not even want to marry, yet he could not have done what either of those men had done. ‘If a man had stolen my wife, I would be challenging him on the field of honour, not toiling as his steward. Why would Salisbury hire the man who claimed his wife?’

‘Well, he did not know that at the time.’ She nodded, lips pursed, and said no more.

He thought he had memorised every detail of the convoluted history of Joan’s marriages, but there must have been a gap, something he had missed or forgotten. ‘So they marry in Flanders when Joan is twelve, Holland goes off to fight for another three years, then returns to England and works for Salisbury and then waits for three years before he petitions the Pope to restore Joan to him?’

‘He didn’t have enough money to do so earlier,’ she rushed to explain. ‘Not until he went to France and captured a prisoner to be ransomed.’

She must misremember. She had only been a child.

But the words reminded him of doubts he had smothered before. Why would a man wait seven years to claim his rightful wife? Why would Joan have even agreed to the marriage with Salisbury if she believed she was already wed?

Worse, why would Holland live with, even serve the man, day by day, and then watch his own wife go up to bed with him night after night?

He could not imagine it. No man he knew could tolerate such a thing. Unless...

Unless he had not been married to her. Unless he only started sleeping with her himself after he came to work for her husband and used the clandestine marriage as an excuse to break a valid marriage and take her himself.

That explanation looked obvious, now that he faced it. The story about the secret wedding in Flanders, that could be swallowed. But what man in love and in the right, with God on his side would return to find his wife married to another man and after what must count as a truly perfunctory protest, wait years to pursue his claim?

What husband brings into his household a man who claims to have wed his wife?

Anne was looking down at her hands, as if she wished they were busy with needle and thread. Could she have known? Had she known all along?

He tried to tell himself no. Tried to tell himself that she was too young.

My mother was the witness.

And Anne had been with Lady Joan ever since.

He tried to think of another interpretation, but what had been justified as kindness now seemed like coercion.

And the only way the plan worked was for Anne to know, too. As well as her mother did. Well enough that Lady Joan had to pay her with protection for life.

Yes, Anne’s mother had good reason to lie before God and man. To provide for a child that would have no place in the world otherwise.

But now, that child was a liability because she knew the truth of a matter so huge that it would rock the throne of England.

And now, so did he.

‘Anne.’ His very tone commanded that she meet his eyes and when she did, he saw what he should have recognised all along. ‘There was no marriage, was there?’